A Blight of Mages

by Karen Miller

  “Morgan…” Venette stared at him, frowning. “You do understand why Sallis and Shari delay a decision on your patents? They seek to keep you uncertain, and in doing so control you. Because your talent is such that once it has fully flowered, your ranking won’t matter.”

  It was odd, hearing his suspicions confirmed. “And how do you suggest I counter their strategy?”

  “With patience, of course,” she said, impatient, glass lifted to her lips. “You seem to have forgotten that time is on your side.”

  No, he’d not forgotten. He was just tired of waiting.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, forcing a smile. “I thought I was fit for polite company, but clearly my temper remains uncertain. I’ll excuse myself to Orwin and—”

  “No, you won’t,” she said, catching his sleeve. “Not when the Garricks promised to be here in the hope I’d convinced you to come.”

  Surprised, he let her keep hold of him. “Maris’s parents pursue the match?”

  She made no effort to hide her gently scornful amusement. “Morgan, don’t pretend to a modesty we both know you lack. You’re not unwed because you’re unweddable. You might only be singly patented, but that’s more than most mages will ever achieve. Add to that your Council appointment and the fact you were chosen to stand in for Brahn Sorvold at Winsun and, well, take my word for it. You are eminently eligible. So ask Maris to dance. If you should take her in dislike there’s no need to think of her further. But if she doesn’t instantly repel you, then perhaps tonight might be the start of a new and happier chapter in your life.”

  “A life in which I find myself in your debt?”

  “I don’t recall claiming to be an altruist, Morgan,” she said, with her sly grin. “I’m expecting you to name at least one child after me.”

  She was beautiful and polished, like the rubies bound to her brow. He shook his head, smiling. “Without considering my wife-to-be’s opinion on the matter?”

  “Naturally.” She plucked his empty glass from his fingers then gave him a little push. “Now off you go, and don’t stint on your charm. Because you can be terribly charming when it suits you, Morgan.”

  The rantina was drawing to its elegant conclusion. Making his way around the edge of the dance floor, watching the dancers dip and sidestep and turn, he was jolted by a memory. The night he’d asked Luzena to wed him. They’d attended the new year’s ball in Elvado, with the city’s central plaza glimlit and turned into a fantastic outdoor ballroom. Deeply in love, they’d danced the rantina around the fountain with two hundred other ranked mages. He could still feel her hand in his, see the delight in her as the mageworked water formed itself into a couple and danced the rantina with them. He remembered her joyous laughter, and then the warm press of her lips on his as she breathed yes into his soul.

  Maris Garrick was watching him. Not boldly, she wasn’t brazen, but her gaze was on him just the same. Her softly rounded cheeks were tinted becomingly pink. Some womanly art had touched colour to her lips, to her eyelids, and darkened her long lashes. Her silver-gilt hair was coaxed into shining waves, fixed with jewel-studded gold pins. She was more than acceptable, more than merely pretty. She wasn’t Luzena, but he couldn’t blame her for that.

  Halting before her, he bowed. “Mage Garrick. I must remember to scold Venette later. She neglected to seat us side by side at dinner.”

  The glint in her eye suggested that Maris Garrick only pretended primness. “Am I to be flattered, Councillor Danfey, or defend our hostess?”

  He glanced across the dance floor to Venette, who was flirting now with Illim Terenz. He and his sister, Jeen, who’d been dancing with Reb Flory, weren’t First Family, but their theatre works were renowned throughout Dorana and even in Brantone. Such success made it possible to wink at their lack of ranking, justify their inclusion at the most exclusive gatherings… and excuse their occasional, inevitable social lapses.

  “Venette needs no defending by anyone, Mage Garrick,” he said, faintly smiling. “And I am more likely to need protection from her.”

  “In that case, I’ll be flattered,” said Maris Garrick. “Lady Martain told you my name?”

  “She told me if I came to dinner this evening I’d not be disappointed. She was right.” He looked at the girl’s parents, discreetly watching from a distance. “This is an informal gathering. How strict should I be in observing the protocols?”

  “I think you might now call me Maris. And I will call you Morgan.” Maris Garrick’s gaze lowered, modestly. “Unless of course you’d find such familiarity offensive.”

  Having taken a short break after the rantina, the musicians were returned to their pipes and drums and strings. A brief trill announced the next dance, a leisurely glide.

  Morgan held out his hand. “On the contrary. It delights me. Maris, shall we dance?”

  They joined another five couples and let the music sweep them in lazy circles across the ballroom floor. Blotting out memory, he held Maris close, but not too close, and was pleased to find that she was graceful on her feet.

  “How old are you?” he said, breathing in her floral perfume.

  She had the palest green eyes, like rain-washed peridot. They narrowed, just a little. “Old enough that I’m ready to submit my first incant to the Council.”

  Disappointment pricked. “And is that why you dance with me? You wish to dance me into sanctioning an incant of your devising?”

  “If you thought me that kind of girl,” she said, comfortable in his arms, “you never would’ve asked me to dance.”

  “My dear Maris.” He gave her a bladed smile. “I have no idea what kind of girl you are. Until tonight I never knew you existed.”

  Which wasn’t entirely true, since he’d long since made it his business to know a little of every First Family who lived in Elvado. But it was true enough. Beyond the fact of her existence, she was a complete stranger.

  Now there was a combative tilt to the girl’s chin. “I am nineteen, sir. But do not be deceived by my tender years. Though I do not attend the College I am yet counted a talent and will receive my Council patent with or without your vote on the matter. You should also know that I am sound in mind and limb and understand that you are on the hunt for a wife.”

  He felt a pang of unease. Nineteen. So young. She is almost half my age. And she knew he needed to marry. Curse Venette and her meddling.

  “I see. Tell me, Maris, are you on the hunt for a husband?”

  She shrugged. “My parents want me to be. For myself, I am… open to possibilities.”

  A saucy answer. Sweet and biddable? This girl had the world hoodwinked. Interested almost despite himself he smiled again, more warmly. “Are you ambitious?”

  “Yes,” she said, bluntly unapologetic as they glided around the dance floor. “Does that offend you?”

  “I’d be offended if you weren’t. What is it you want out of life, Maris?”

  This time she smiled at him, brilliantly. “Everything. Don’t you?”

  The music ended, ending their dance. When the musicians struck up again, he frowned. “Do you care to jig?”

  “Not particularly,” she said, careless. “Disappointed?”

  Raising her hand, he touched his lips to her skin, lightly, making sure to look directly into her eyes.

  “No.”

  She smiled again, cattish, like Venette. “Neither am I.”

  To his surprise, her parents took to the dance floor as he and Maris abandoned it. Noticing, she laughed.

  “I made them promise not to haunt me. You should know the prospect of your interest has them all aflutter.”

  “And you, Maris? Are you aflutter too?”

  “I am flattered, Morgan,” she said, after a moment. “And not displeased. If you feel we have made a promising start, and would like to see me again, then arrangements can be made. Through my parents, of course.”

  He started to give Maris the answer she was expecting, then stopped. Of a sudden he felt crowded. Man
ipulated. From the corner of his eye he could see Venette, watching them, an almost smugly satisfied look on her face.

  “Maris—”

  “The decision’s not entirely yours, you know,” she said sharply. “It’s not enough that you find me acceptable. I must be sure about you as well. But if you’re already convinced that we could never suit, then this was an amusing diversion and nothing more.”

  Her self-possession was attractive. Women who clung and simpered annoyed him. “I would not make any important decision based upon one dance and a little banter. If I said the prospect of another encounter was not unpleasant, would that please you?”

  Maris’s eyes warmed. “How could it not?”

  He couldn’t deny it felt good to be desired. A long time had passed since he’d held a woman so close, breathed in her scent, seen attraction in her eyes.

  All the more reason to tread with care.

  He shifted backwards, just slightly. “It is only fair to caution you, though, Maris. My father, Lord Danfey, is not well. In doing my duty to him I have been forced to set aside important Council matters, which must now be addressed.”

  “I understand,” she said, nodding. “And I would not presume to make demands. Shall we agree that we might fall once more into company some time within the next week or two?”

  He kissed her hand again. “That sounds most agreeable. I look forward to getting to know you better, Maris, as soon as my duties permit. Now, alas, I must depart.”

  She curtsied. He bowed. Then he watched her retreat to the ballroom’s elegant sideboard of refreshments.

  “Well?” said Venette, as he joined her. “Did I not say you’d be well entertained?” She smoothed his sleeve. “Shall you be seeing Maris again?”

  Remembering that smug look, he decided to punish her a little. “Perhaps.”

  She pouted, knowing full well what he was doing. “I give you fair warning, Morgan. The Garricks and I are friends. So don’t dally with the girl. If you find your heart’s engaged, or even if you think it might be, well and good. But if you think to wed her falsely, then I shall be most unamused.”

  As if he would, knowing how poorly Luzena would count him for trifling with an innocent, no matter how saucy she might play herself.

  “And I consider myself warned,” he said, with a pretended lightness. “Thank you for tonight, Venette. Though it pains me to admit it, you weren’t wrong. I did need a light-hearted evening.”

  “I know you did,” she retorted. “I’m a mage with two eyes and I see clearly with both of them. Morgan—” She frowned, ill at ease. “You’re not really troubled by those pending incants, are you?”

  It had been a mistake to let the mask slip. “I scarcely think of them.”

  “Good. Because you shouldn’t. Besides, Sallis and Shari are the past. Young mages like you and Maris are our future. Remember that. And remember what I said about azafris and susquinel. After what happened to Brahn Sorvold, I don’t like to think of you experimenting. The risk is hardly worth it. I know you’re ambitious, Morgan. It’s not a bad thing. But you mustn’t be greedy, or take unnecessary chances. Dorana needs you.”

  She had irked and humiliated him this night, though she’d meant to do neither. But any lingering resentment he felt faded in the face of her genuine concern. Leaning close, he kissed her cheek.

  “You have my word, Venette, that my eyes shall never grow larger than my appetite. Nor shall ambition leap me into danger. And on that note, I bid you farewell. Enjoy what remains of your party. And don’t trouble yourself. I can find my own way out.”

  Although Venette’s husband was still present, and in theory his host, he felt no need to do more than nod and smile at Orwin as he departed. He could feel Maris Garrick’s following gaze on him, but he didn’t look back.

  Reaching the street on which stood Venette and Orwin’s town house, he paused to breathe in the cool, sweet night air. The hour was late, with the moon risen high and distant amid a beguiling scatter of stars. Not even the lampposts with their small glimfire crowns could dim the diamond-bright vista. Much of Elvado’s most exclusive residential district was sleeping. He listened, but could hear no carrying voices or creak of carriage wheels with clattering hooves on the cobbles. Faint strains of dance music drifted from Venette’s ballroom. Fainter still, he caught a hint of other music playing. Perhaps it came from the concert hall. Was there a performance tonight? He had no idea. He’d long ago lost track of such transitory diversions, though once he’d enjoyed them very much.

  And will I enjoy them again, with Maris Garrick beside me? Or am I doomed to play the gallant husband with some other acceptable girl?

  Assuming, of course, that one could be found. He had no idea of that, either, and abruptly realised he didn’t care. He was tired of thinking about it. He’d do what he must, for his father, for their family, but for now he’d done more than enough fretting over women.

  As easily as breathing, he ignited three sigils, spoke the required words of power, stepped through his conjured portal… and out again, at the mansion.

  “Welcome home, sir,” said Rumm, punctilious in the glimlit foyer. “I trust you passed a pleasant evening?”

  “Pleasant enough,” Morgan replied, heading for the mansion’s sweeping staircase.

  Though he could easily have manifested directly in his attic workroom, his father did not care for such casual comings and goings. A man of breeding, he said, considered the master servant’s position. In any good establishment the master servant was at all times kept apprised of his gentlemen’s whereabouts.

  “I’ll be upstairs, Rumm,” he added. “And I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

  “No, sir,” said Rumm. “But I’m asked to ask you to stop by his lordship’s room upon your return.”

  Hand on the staircase’s carved banister, he hesitated. “It’s late. I’ll see him in the morning, and be sure to let him know you passed on his request.”

  “Less a request, sir, than a command,” said Rumm, taking a step after him. “If you’ll forgive my plain speaking.”

  Morgan watched his fingers tighten on the polished wood. “Of course.”

  His father should have long since been sleeping, but instead he was sitting up against a raft of pillows, reading a book.

  “My lord, it’s late. You shouldn’t stint your sleep.”

  Setting the book aside, his father looked him up and down. “So, Morgan. I’m to learn of your whereabouts from a servant, am I? That’s how I taught you to show proper respect?”

  Oh, Father. Waving the door closed, he approached the vast, high bed. “You were resting when I returned from Elvado. Venette’s invitation was last minute. I had no time to wait.”

  “And resting’s the same as dead, is it, that you couldn’t bestir me and let me know you’d be out for the night?”

  “Without you get your proper rest you will be dead,” he snapped. “And what then? You’d prefer I make haste for the crypt to tell you of my business?”

  “You take a tone with me?” said his father, slapping the bedspread. “I’ll have no tone taken beneath my own roof, Morgan. And I’ll know what you’re doing. As Lord Danfey, that’s my right. Your business is my business.”

  “No, my lord,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even. “A man’s business is his own.”

  Another slap to the bedspread. A thread of spittle on the lips. “You’re not a man, you’re my son! You’re not a man until you’ve bred a son. Turn your buttocks to leather sitting in a Council seat, Morgan, and you still won’t be a man until there’s a boy calling you father.”

  Morgan stared at him, any thought of mentioning Maris Garrick killed stone dead. He’d die himself before giving the old man such satisfaction.

  “Enjoy your book, sir,” he said at last, cool and impersonal. “If you’re stirring by the time I take breakfast, perhaps if you’ve the appetite we can eat together. Otherwise I shall doubtless see you in between my Council duties, which resume
now with some urgency. Good evening.”

  “You’re walking out?” said his father, incredulous. “I’ll not have it! Stand where you are and give an account of your night’s doings. Morgan! Do you hear me? Morgan—”

  He closed the chamber door on his father’s hoarse fury. Made his way to the attic with his own burden of temper, which he could not drive out no matter how hard his heels thudded on the stairs.

  You’re not a man, you’re my son.

  Close to weeping his rage and frustration, he summoned glimfire then raggedly paced his workroom floor. The air trapped inside the attic still reeked of burned azafris. It stank of his failure. His heart ached as it drubbed his ribs. One incant ratified, two more to come, and it wasn’t enough. A seat on the revered Council of Mages, and it wasn’t enough.

  He’d have a son of his own by now, he’d be a man in his father’s eyes, if Luzena hadn’t died. So what was his remedy? Should he paper over any cracks of doubt, crush all his bittersweet memories and woo Maris Garrick until either he loved her or could live the lie? Wed her and bed her until she birthed him a son? Trembling, he staggered then dropped to his knees. Dropped again, to his hands, to his forearms, and bowed his spine until his forehead touched the floor. His unsteady fingers found the locket and gripped it to hurting.

  If I have to, I’ll do it. Luzena, I’ll have to. And you’ll have to forgive me. You’re the one who left.

  Eventually he unbent himself. Found his feet and stood like a man, like a proud mage of Dorana. And he was a man, no matter what his father said. It was foolish of him to set so much store by intemperate accusations.

  “And I’ll not fall into that trap again,” he said, out loud so he could hear himself make the promise. “Let him rail, let him bluster, let him flog me with words. It’s only air. Greve Danfey does not define who I am.”

  The glimfire he’d summoned showed him his workbench with its three new crucibles and its pots and jars of base elements and catalysts. Showed him his tiny store of remaining azafris, salvaged against all hope. No matter what it cost him, or the risks involved, he’d have to procure more. In the small, wax-sealed glass vial beside it there was drab brown susquinel, his last, best chance of success.